Wednesday, February 10, 2016

Please welcome Lisabet and get lost in her hot, Hot, HOT release.
______

The Gazillionaire and the Virgin

By Lisabet Sarai

Excessica,
2016

Contemporary
BDSM erotic romance (Five flames)

Blurb:

Trust can’t
be bought—it has to be earned.

When Silicon
Valley entrepreneur Rachel Zelinsky meets reclusive genius Theo Moore, she finds
him strangely compelling. Theo is both arrogant and socially awkward, but he has
an aura of power that speaks to Rachel’s carefully-hidden submissive side. Disturbed
and aroused, she tries to focus on her original objective—a deal to incorporate
his Artificial Intelligence software into her company’s popular virtual world. Rachel’s
not a woman who lets pleasure interfere with business, but for some reason, she
can’t resist Theo’s geeky appeal.

Theo Moore
can’t be bought. His past battles with poverty make him deeply suspicious of the
billionaire CEO. Still, with her voluptuous curves and brilliant mind, Rachel embodies
his ultimate sexual fantasy. Too bad his knowledge about sex derives from extensive
research and a stash of kinky porn rather than real-world experience.

That doesn’t
bother Rachel, however. In his bed—in his arms—in his bonds—she discovers the bliss
of total surrender. Rachel may be Theo’s first lover, but Theo is Rachel’s first
true Master—and the first man to truly touch her heart. It seems that love may harmonize
their differing goals and values, until Rachel’s unwitting violation of Theo’s trust
threatens to tear them apart forever.

Quotes

“Lisabet
Sarai writes the most beautiful erotic prose. Her stories tease at the senses and
transport you to a world of sexual pleasure.” ~ Desiree Holt, queen of BDSM erotic
romance and author of Forward Pass

LISABET
SARAI occasionally tackles other genres, but BDSM will always be her first love.
Every one of her nine novels includes some element of power exchange, while her
D/s short stories range from mildly kinky to intensely perverse.

It won’t go away. All through the day—every
day—need gnaws at my spirit. Whether I’m reading my email, meeting with my board
of directors, preparing a presentation, closing a deal to acquire a promising start-up,
discussing deployment of the next release with my engineering managers, I can’t
shake the sense that something critical is missing. In yoga class, the aching knot
just above my solar plexus doesn’t unwind, no matter how deeply I breathe. Driving
to work, I have to force myself to pay attention. Otherwise, I drift off into recollections
of my time with Theo—what he did, what he said, how I responded.

I miss him, miss him dreadfully, though it’s
been only four days since we were last together. We’ve Skyped every night since
the weekend, but somehow that only makes the hunger worse. When I see him there
on my screen, grainy and over-exposed, all I want is to touch him—to brush the unruly
hair off his forehead, to stroke his cheek, to trace the line of his plump, sensitive
lips with my thumb. To offer up my own mouth for him to claim it, tear off my blouse
and press my tits against his solid chest, sink to my knees and beg him to take
me.

I’d be more than willing to strip and perform
for him, to act out whatever lewd actions he ordered, but he refuses to become involved
in any sort of phone or cyber-sex. “Everyone’s listening in,” he asserts. “The government.
The neighbors. What you and I do should be private.” So we chat about safe topics—our
work, what we’ve been reading, where we should go for dinner next weekend. All the
while, lust burns in those bright eyes of his. I know what he’s thinking. I’m thinking
the same thing.

I’m not expecting him to call Thursday afternoon.
The trill of my phone interrupts me as I’m giving Diane instructions for tomorrow.
Still, the sound of his voice kindles a warm joy in the pit of my stomach as well
as a wetness between my legs.

“Hello. Rachel?”

“Hi, Theo. What’s up?”

“I want you to come early tomorrow. Around noon.”

“I—um—I really can’t. I’ve got an all-day meeting
up in San Francisco, some investors from India.”

“Cancel it.”

“What? I can’t do that. These guys have come
half-way around the world to talk to me about a franchise deal. Think of the potential
profit! More than a billion people, a soaring GDP, and Internet growth that’s doubling
every year…”

It’s the wrong thing to say. I realize this
the moment the statement’s out of my mouth.

“So you care more about money than about me.”
Not a whining complaint, but a dry statement of the facts, at least as Theo sees
them.

I’d never hurt you, I almost say, then understand I’m doing
so at that very moment. And it feels horrible, like a knife twisting in my gut.

(Theo)

The smell tells me I’m home, long before I open
my eyes—a mixture of black tea, sandalwood incense, and a hint of the glue I use
for my models. The air conditioner hums and in the background, I hear the soft,
sedate progress of some Bach harpsichord sonata. The music sets up echoes inside
my head, which feels swollen and fragile as a Fabergé egg.

The firmness molding my back and butt suggests
I’m stretched out on the bed. Have I been asleep? I don’t recall lying down, indeed,
don’t remember anything for the space of several breaths. Then it all comes crashing
back, a tsunami of embarrassment, fear and regret. The fund raiser. Rachel. Oh,
my God!

“Theo? Are you awake?”

She keeps her voice low, as though she understands
the pain bouncing around in the hollows of my skull. Memory flutters back in bits
and pieces. A dizzy, endless journey. Struggling not to vomit on Rachel’s upholstery.
I crack open my eyelids, squinting into the welcome dimness.

“Rachel?” I rasp, my mouth dry as the Santa
Anas. All I can see is the featureless ceiling. “What happened?”

When I raise my head, seeking her, the room
spins and my stomach objects strenuously. She’s there, though, leaning toward me,
seated on one of my dining room chairs, which she’s dragged to the side of the bed.
Her curls have come loose from the glittering clips she used to tame them, and her
make-up is smudged. She’s unspeakably gorgeous.

Despite my sorry state, the headache and the
cotton mouth and the dizziness, my cock stirs inside the monkey suit I’m apparently
still wearing. Ah, the tenaciousness of lust!

“How are you feeling?” The concern I hear in
her tone has an immediate healing effect.

“Pretty rocky, but I suppose I’m all right.”
I ease myself into a half-sit, propped against my pillow.

“Here, drink this.” She hands me a glass full
of fizzing liquid.

I swallow it down, ignoring the protests from
my gut. Despite the medicinal taste, I feel slightly more human after consuming
it.

Rachel leans back and contemplates me, eyebrows
drawn together into a frown. My dick hardens further while a blush climbs into my
cheeks. I feel like a naughty schoolboy. The sensation is not entirely unpleasant.

“I told you to go easy on the champagne.”

“I should have listened to you,” I admit. “But
I was so nervous.”

“I know,” she says. “I know. I think the stress
had as much to do with your collapse as the alcohol.”

I nod. “I used to faint, back when I was at
school—when things got really bad. When I couldn’t handle a situation, that was
my final escape. Finally my parents pulled me out and got me a tutor. It hasn’t
happened since.”

“I’m sorry I pushed you so hard, Theo. I should
have known better.”

Her hand claims mine, in a gesture so casual
and natural it seems unconscious. Does she have any idea what she’s doing to me? Still, remarkably, I have no urge to pull away.

“You were doing so well, though. I was so proud
of you.” She gives my fingers a squeeze. I squeeze back, amazed that I can be so
comfortable with her touching me.

“But now I’ve disappointed you, I imagine.”
I try sitting up straighter. It’s awkward with only one hand free. I want to adjust
the swollen lump pressing against my zipper, but of course I don’t dare. “And the
donors—they’re probably all laughing their millionaire heads off at poor, pathetic
Theo Moore.”

“Not at all. Everyone was quite worried about
you. Roger Varley wanted to call an ambulance, but I thought you’d really rather
go home.”

“You were right. Thank you. But how did you
get me up to the second floor and into bed?”

“It wasn’t easy.” Her whole face lights up when
she laughs. “You’re a big guy. The gardener helped me bundle you up the stairs.
I fished the key out of your trouser pocket.”

The concept of her hand wriggling into my pants,
her heat warming my body—it’s too much. My
cock surges, threatening a premature explosion. I’ve got to get Rachel Zelinsky
out of here, before I really embarrass myself.

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